The road bends toward the ocean, and for a moment, I forget where I was going.
The windows are down, and the ocean air feels like the first honest thing in a long time. We don't have a plan. That's the plan.
A song I haven't heard in years comes on the radio. Beside me is someone who knows every word, and neither of us needs to say a thing.
We pull over where the cliffs meet the sea. The last light catches the water, the air smells of salt and wildflowers, and I wish we could stay until the stars come out.
I've never been to Big Sur. But I know the feeling of wanting a drive to last a little longer — because of who's beside me.
I made this candle for the passenger seat. For the drives you never want to end, the songs that find you at exactly the right mile, and the people who make the road feel like home.
